santana lopez, superwoman
by Gorshenin
Summary: santana lopez as superwoman
1. Chapter 1

a/n: originally posted to tumblr. wrote a few new chapters so i thought i'd get around to posting them after i clean and edit the originals. probably be posting one chapter a week. there'll be changes and things. huzzah. pls dontaskmeaboutthestatusofanyotherthinginreviewsofthisfic. kthxbyeeeeeeeeeeee

* * *

She's standing behind a chair when Brittany finally spots her, flicking through the photos on her digital camera and checking her watch casually with a tilt of her wrist. Brittany has no doubt that she was one of the first reporters to arrive, guaranteeing that the their well assigned seat in the gallery. Santana Lopez is a creature of steady habits and small assurances, always the first to arrive. Always dressed in a slightly oversized blazer and reliable flats. Brittany's never seen her without that cute satchel bag thing and is never disappointed with the snack her friend produces from it.

Santana is really the best field partner she could ask for.

Brittany grins as she sneaks up behind her coworker, "I'm late, I know, but luckily so are politicians. So we're all good, right?"

Santana startles, tucking her camera close to her chest like a shield, "Brittany! Oh, good you're here—"

"_Finally_, I know," Brittany rolls her eyes playfully, faking a scolded tone.

"No, I—you're right no one's shown up yet so it's not like you missed anything—"

"I'm teasing silly," Brittany places her hand on the small of Santana's back as she passes behind her in the row of chairs reserved for the press. She pauses curiously when Santana shifts awkwardly under her light touch.

"Sorry," the woman blushes, adjusting her half frame glasses and keeping her eyes on the camera in her hands. "I'm kind of ticklish."

Brittany quirks a smile, "Your secret is safe with me."

Santana's eyes dart up to hers for just a moment, deep and searching in a way that didn't quite fit the situation. Brittany feels her smile slip a little under the scrutiny. She wants to push the matter, hedge something that might give her a clue to the expression in her partner's eye, but then Santana looks towards the corner of the room. A second later the mayor walks through the large set of double doors.

Brittany pulls a rueful face, constantly confused about Santana's ability to predict people's whereabouts. It's like she can sense people coming or something. More than once she's lead Brittany down a side street to find a person of interest sneaking out a side door to escape the press.

"It was a lucky guess," Santana had mumbled once when Brittany asked. "I'm just glad that you're with me when we find them."

While they're both reporters at the Daily Planet, Santana is a facts kind of girl, preferring to gather documents and data rather than chase down an interview or quote. Word around the office was that she's apprehensive about talking to people, a shy woman. Santana worked solo mostly before the department decided her work was a little too many statistics and not enough soul. That's where Brittany comes in, she's all about the people. Interviews are her specialty and there a few things that will keep her from getting one once she sets her mind to it. Together they make a great team, Santana lays the foundation of a story with irrefutable evidence and Brittany wraps it all up with a few compelling quotes from the parties involved.

"Did they only give us one seat again?" Brittany frowns, looking at the one folding chair marked with the Daily Planet's logo.

"You go ahead and sit," Santana gestures to the chair then her camera. "I'm gonna need a shot anyway."

"You never take the chair."

"You never stay in it long anyway," Santana shrugs with a hint of a smile. "So we're even."

Brittany grins. It's true. She's usually the first to be on their feet when it's time for questions. She's always been a little… enthusiastic, when it comes to her journalism.

"Why thank you, Miss Lopez," she smiles sweetly at her partner, and sits, even if she knows it won't be for long.

* * *

Santana can tell this guy is lying.

Her super-hearing can pick up on the erratic heartbeat, and her vision—through phony glasses—can easily pick up the excessive sweat gathering at this brow line. Not that she doesn't actually needs any of that, Brittany thinks he's lying and Santana has learned to trust her. She has never met a better judge of character than Brittany S. Pierce. All she has to do is make that disbelieving little snort, narrow her brilliant blue eyes, and Santana would be willing to bet that this man is up to no good.

Everything else is just supporting evidence.

She's listening with one ear to the words, jotting down notes for fun. The story is already written in her head and when she gets back to the office it will take only a moment on her computer to write it out at super-speed. That's one of the biggest perks of being partnered with Brittany, they share an office so she has more privacy to cut a few corners with her superpowers.

The biggest perk of working with Brittany is working with Brittany.

After leaving Ohio, and the loving support of the adoptive family that found a crashed UFO and the small space baby inside, Santana was sure that she would never meet another person as caring as the Lopez's. She was wrong. Brittany Pierce, apart from her near reckless reporting style, is the loveliest woman she knows. She's the first to volunteer her help to another person and the last to double cross them.

She was the first to go out of her way to try to get to know Santana, stopping at her desk for a moment each morning just to say high and ask about her work. Santana didn't need her super hearing to tell her that Brittany was genuinely interested, the smile on her face told her that.

Santana has never been particularly people friendly, she's learned to keep at a distance to protect not only them, but herself. She needs her secret identity, her mysteries, to be at arm's length. So she's cast herself as the awkwardly shy, sort of standoffish, girl who'd rather avoid confrontation then make a fuss.

She's ordinary, forgettable, and bland.

Everything Superwoman is not, and Superwoman is the only woman Brittany has eyes for.

It's happened four times now, getting called to an emergency, begging Brittany to stay in the sidelines and behind the police barriers, watching her slip by with a mischievous smirk thrown over her shoulder. Santana always waits long enough to see that smirk, the fire in her eyes and the passion flowing through her posture. Then she dashes off to the nearest bit of cover so she can change.

Superwoman always saves the day—saves Brittany—just in the nick of time.

The first time the reporter was too frazzled from her nearly falling off a collapsing balcony, to say much. Superwoman set her down gently on an adjacent rooftop and told her that she should really stay behind the police barriers. Brittany nodded quietly and couldn't find the wits to argue.

Her initial shock aside, Brittany has recently become much friendlier after being saved from whatever fiasco she's found herself in. She's been asking questions, joking about how Superwoman must really like her articles to be saving her so much, and finally, on the last experience together, Santana was convinced that her friend was flirting with her alter-ego. Using a smile she's never shown Santana, sewing together sentences that stuffed with suggestion. The things she says would make Santana blush to the tips of her ears but Superwoman only smiles, letting that speak for her.

Later on, when she's alone at home, without her glasses or her cape, Santana tries to not take it personally. Superwoman was great—flashy, strong, and sexy as hell in that outfit. Santana Lopez is a scrawny woman scurrying around in a blazer her shoulders are too small for.

Someone would have to be crazy to be interested in Santana Lopez when Superwoman was saving the world every other day.

She sighs, refocusing on the matter at hand.

The mayor of Metropolis is denying the accusation that he's involved with the notorious crime lord, and Superwoman's arch nemesis, Sue Sylvester. Santana doesn't believe him for a second, not only because Brittany doesn't believe him, but because he's the definition of a slime ball. Mayor Dustin Goolsby is probably the worst thing to happen to this city in years.

Santana really kind of hates him, which is fine, he's never been a fan of Superwoman either so their contact is minimal beyond press events.

She can't watch him talk anymore so she focuses on other things, blinking into her x-ray vision so she can peer through the back wall. Behind the podium and in the adjacent room, Santana sees everyone you would expect to see in an executive posse. Assistants running about, PR personnel, a few guys trying to intimidate a coffee maker into functioning for them, Azimio Adams—

Santana stops.

He's a criminal, metahuman, and a known associate of Sue Sylvester. He looks sharp in that suit, and seemingly normal, but Santana knows that underneath the stylish silk shirt is the power to rival the strength of twenty men his size. He can do a lot of damage.

What is he doing here? The mayor's bodyguard perhaps? Hired help? Why would he need extra security? Criminal _metahuman_ security. It looks like he's waiting for something, getting antsy standing there in his suit as the aids start rushing, some of them are disappearing down hallways and towards exits. This isn't looking well for the mayor's association denial. Santana shifts her weight, uneasy with the discovery, with the people moving like scared cockroaches. Something's about to happen, she just doesn't know what.

"Santana," a voice whispers next to her and Santana glances over too quickly—without the presence of mind to shut off her x-ray vision—pink polka dots, a hint of lace with matching briefs and Santana goes into a coughing fit, squeezing her eyes shut to rid the image from her mind.

Like that's ever going to happen.

She would sooner eat kryptonite then forget that image.

"Are you alight?" Brittany's voice is quiet and concerned, a hand falls onto Santana's shoulder, rubbing small circles to ease her breath.

"Yeah," Santana nods, her eyes watering behind her glasses, "startled me, gum—caught in my throat. I'm just gonna—"

Santana throws her thumb over her shoulder and takes off towards the hall. Immediately after pushing through the door of the conference room, Santana drops all signs of a cough. Her jaw sets , x-ray vision is already up and trying to pinpoint Adams.

Something's going down, something big. Adams is barking orders and a few men in suits are bringing in large black cases. Could they be carrying weapons? Explosives? She's not sure, each one is lined with lead and impervious to her super-sight. It all makes this so much more troubling. Why would they need _lead lined cases_ unless they're hiding something?

Santana knows it's show time and sneaks off to change into the necessary outfit. The closest thing she finds is an empty janitor's closet, with a lock and a high window for ventilation—perfect. Undressing at super speed only takes seconds, tucking her office wear and glasses into her satchel, Santana hides it carefully away.

When she stands, she's an entirely different person.

Her shoulders are square, her chin held high, the last thing to go is the hair tie keeping back her dark hair.

Once that's free, so is Santana—so is Superwoman.

She's through the window in a breeze of displaced air. She flies high and quickly, feeling the wind around her and the weight of her disguise off her shoulders. The sun hits her blue and red uniform and she feels invincible. The city is beautiful in the late afternoon light. Metropolis is simply gleaming and on the horizon she can see the proud globe of the Daily Planet.

Her heart flutters along with her cape in the wind.

Brittany.

Santana's jaw tightens; Brittany is in danger.

* * *

Brittany isn't sure where the hell Santana went, or why she's walking out of the interview to go find her.

Brittany Pierce just ditched a press conference, right as they opened the floor to questions, to find Santana and make sure she wasn't choking on her gum, again, or whatever else might have happened. She's sure that could be deemed newsworthy, above the fold even. Brittany Pierce never gives up an interview. Never. And logically, she knows Santana is in no real danger, but Brittany wants to make sure. She needs to make sure. If only she could find her.

The woman has a knack for disappearing every once in a while.

"Santana," Brittany hisses along the hallway, she's already passed a drinking fountain, an empty women's restroom, and hasn't caught sight of her partner.

Why is she so worried anyway? Santana was a grown woman, she could take care of herself. In fact, Brittany is nearly certain that Santana will be upset that she didn't get a quote. She should go back and get a quote. Quote the crap out of that slimy mayor.

But she doesn't want to, not without Santana.

And it sort of agitates her, the way she's more curious about her partner than the real story here. She should be more professional, stay focused, and stick to the plan. But her intuition is telling her to find her partner and Brittany always follows that voice in her head. Frustrated, she barges through a door, expecting another empty conference room, but discovers two dozen men with a decorative variety of assault weapons. They look as surprised to see Brittany as she is to see her.

Brittany licks her lips, realizing that there's no way she can turn around and walk out like this never happened. Might as well spin it.

She forces a smile and clicks her pen over her notepad, "Care to make a statement?"

They don't.

* * *

Santana counts seventeen firearms, twenty men, one metahuman, and one hostage sitting in a chair in the far side of the room.

If her super hearing was as accurate as she knew it to be Sylvester sent Adams and his crew down here to double cross the mayor and and hold the reporters as hostages until he ensures repayment for the large sums of money that guaranteed him election in the first place. Apparently Sylvester wasn't happy with the way her puppet of a mayor had been handling business. It was time for new management, Adams had said.

What Sylvester had planned for the mayor's office was something Santana had to figure out later. Right now, Brittany was in danger, sitting there with a scowl on her face and her arms tied behind her back while the men try to figure out what to do with the first witness to their crime.

Santana bites back a growl.

Seventeen weapons.

The element of surprise is on her side, and so is her standing.

_She is Superwoman_.

She can bust through walls and have all the guns in pieces on the floor before they could even cough away the dust. And that was exactly what she does. Superspeed has never felt as good as when she's using it to save Brittany Pierce. The barrels of the guns bend like clay in her hands, cracked over men's heads, and clattering to the ground as she moves on to the next thug.

When the smoke clears there's only three people left conscious.

Superwoman, Brittany, and Adams.

She promises it won't stay like that for long.

* * *

Brittany coughs, the air is thick and full of debris, the loud crash still ringing in her ears. She squints through the smoke and her breath catches in her throat.

"Superwoman," she says it before she could stop herself.

She had been hoping—praying—that she would be rescued.

Rescued by her.

The Woman of Steel.

The Savior of Metropolis.

The woman who saved her life, swept her off her feet, and has never left her mind since.

She's squaring off against the large man in the suit, his face a nasty grin with arrogant eyes.

"You wanna stay out of Sylvester's way, little lady," he shrugs out of his jacket.

Superwoman is not impressed, nor intimidated. Her smile almost cocky when she says, "We'll see who the little lady is when the dust settles."

He chuckles at her, low and menacingly. It makes Brittany's skin crawl and the hair on her neck stand. His muscles ripple under his dress shirt, the fabric pulled taunt and taxed.

Brittany watches, awed into silence as the heroine raises from the ground, her short cape billowing casually around her shoulders, arms crossed over the trademark 'S' on her chest. She is a sight, dark hair dancing around her strong features in a chaotic show of perfection, her eyes focused and burning with the challenge.

She is so beautiful.

Brittany is so smitten.

She can feel her cheeks warm, the racing of her heart beat in just a slightly different fashion than was justified for the situation. She should be scared but she can only squirm in her seat. She is being held hostage but all she wants to do is tell Superwoman how pretty she looks today.

Her leering is cut short by the ripping of fabric. The man's shirt finally giving way to his unnatural swell of muscles. Brittany hoped he wouldn't come any closer to her. Surely, Superwoman will make sure that didn't happen.

Surely.

"Welcome to the gun show."

His line makes the superhero crinkle her nose distastefully. Brittany thinks she's adorable.

Superwoman gestures to the discarded firearms on the floor, "You can see what happens when I play with guns."

"I'm not here to play," he rushes forward, drawing back his fist to hit her.

Superwoman only smiles.

* * *

Like she thought, Adams had nothing on Superwoman. He's in a heap on the floor, unconscious and bound by a support beam she had pulled out of the wall. Santana claps her hands together to clear them from dust and listens.

Her super hearing picks up the police gathering outside the building, most of the occupants have already fled after the sounds of the fight and the word had traveled about Sylvester's thugs. There's only one person she's really interested in right now. She glances over to the woman, still trapped in the chair.

Brittany appears much less intimidating when she's tied to a chair and covered in a light coating of soot, Santana notices, though, she's still just as beautiful.

Santana wishes she could tell her that, _my alter ego, Santana Lopez thinks you're the most stunning woman in the galaxy, oh and by the way, we're the same person._

Of course, she can't say that, can never say that.

So she keeps Brittany's eyes as she floats over to her. It's a luxury that Santana Lopez can't afford, just to look into her eyes. Eye contact is dangerous, as one of the most memorable things about a person can be their eyes, and a pair of glasses mixed with bad posture only hide so much.

Brittany's eyes are worth memorizing. They're blue in a way that reminds Santana of the Ohio sky in summer, speckled with the faintest wisps of clouds to make the color ever so lighter.

"It's you again," Santana says with a friendly smile, because Brittany can't seem to find her words. Speechlessness is rare for Brittany Pierce and something only Superwoman can induce. "Always getting into trouble."

Her cheeks color with a bashful flush, one that Santana Lopez could never inspire, "I wasn't looking for a story this time."

Santana quirks an eyebrow, landing softly next to the chair and falling to one knee. Her hands start working the ties from around Brittany's body. She's careful, so very careful about her strength around her.

"I was looking for my friend," Brittany continues quietly, "she ran off in the middle of the mayor's press conference, I—I was worried."

There's a hesitation, Santana hears it in her body more than she hears it in Brittany's words.

She hears the smallest change in Brittany's heartbeat when she mentions her other half. The smallest waver in the rhythm, but it's there. She removes the ties holding Brittany prisoner and tosses them to the side, standing confidently, proudly, maybe even with a little sass thrown in. Her hands on her hips and her head tilted.

"Your friend, huh?" Santana needles.

"Yeah," Brittany fidgets before she stands, swiping at some dust that had fallen on her pants, and looking up at Superwoman shyly.

It's strange for Santana, as Brittany is usually taller than her, but when Santana is Superwoman, she keeps herself at least five inches off the ground. She does it to hide her true size, to seem intimidating, to look powerful.

"Some friend always letting you run off into harm's way," Santana challenges, floating a few inches closer, and keeping herself only a hair taller than Brittany. She's not trying to be intimidating right now, she's not trying to impress or impose, she's only trying to be everything Santana Lopez is not.

Her selfish side wants to know if Brittany will defend her, if she'll assure the great Superwoman of feeble Santana Lopez's worth.

Brittany lets out a small laugh, "Trust me, if there was a way she could hold me back, she would do it. If I had a dollar for every time she told me to be careful, well..."

Santana hears it again, that flutter.

"Maybe you should listen to her," she says quietly, keeping Brittany's eyes until the reporter has to look away, flushing again, embarrassed.

"But then," Brittany glances up, a pretty smile on her face, the prettiest Santana has ever seen, a smile not meant for her, "I never would have met you."

Santana wants that smile to be for her; just her, not the suit or the cape. She wishes she could get that with the glasses and the dorky satchel. But this is the way it has to be.

Superwoman is the charmer, so maybe, just for the moment, she could charm Brittany like she's always wanted to as Santana.

"I'll have to thank her," Santana's lips quirk into her best smile, the smile that's on the magazine covers and all over the press functions. The one that makes the men and women of Metropolis swoon. "The police have cordoned off the city block. Did you need a lift out of here?"

She holds out her hand and waits, watching Brittany's eyes widen, her face pink with excitement. Her hand moves towards Santana's fingers, reaching out for the strong palm of a superhero, but she stops short, and Santana hears it again, she sees it in a flash across Brittany's face. The sky in her eyes turning a shade darker.

"I would," she takes back her hand and gives Santana, Superwoman, a gentle smile, "but I really need to find my friend."

Superwoman blinks, "You're sure."

"I am," Brittany laughs a little, as if she's surprised even herself. "Thank you, though, for the offer."

Superwoman was just turned down by Brittany S. Pierce and she couldn't feel better about.

Brittany was turning down Superwoman to go find Santana Lopez.

The friend that made her heart flutter.

Santana's smile wasn't the picture perfect one this time, it was a genuine grin. She was so happy.

"Must be some friend," she pushes her luck.

"She is," Brittany takes a step back, towards the door as a few police officers walk in. The look in her eyes, the sound of her heart, is sure,

"Have a good night," Santana nods, watching her go.

* * *

Brittany is sure she's gone crazy, turning down Superwoman after she had just saved her, _again._ She doesn't have time to start to regret it before she spots the woman that had inadvertently gotten her into that mess.

"Santana!" Brittany calls down the hall. "Hey!"

The woman turns from where she had been coming around the corner of the hallway. Clutching the strap of her satchel across her chest with both hands and looking wearily at the cops rushing around.

"Brittany what happened?" she asks. "I thought it was an earthquake, but someone was talking about Superwoman and there's all these men with guns everywhere."

"Yeah, yeah," Brittany waves it off, slinging her arm though Santana's. "She came, did her thing, took off. Important part is that the mayor taking bribes from Sue Sylvester. Heard the whole thing myself! He was pretty much put in office by her to push her slimy business into Metropolis."

"No way," Santana glances up at Brittany through her glasses. "You think we can have it ready to print by tomorrow?"

"I'd like to see them try to keep it out of the papers," Brittany grins. "I'm going to call the office as soon as we get out of here, make them reserve the whole front page for us."

Santana smiles at that, ducking her head and adjusting her glasses, "I have a few things filed away that connect Goolsby to Sylvester. That last tax reform act he pushed, the private security corporation that's replacing law enforcement at the docks."

Brittany peers down at her friend, "And when were you going to share?"

"Oh, I don't know, going after the mayor isn't really my style, but I knew when you had a catalyst you'd be brave enough to use it."

Brittany grins, flattered that Santana would think of holding onto these leads just for her, confident that Brittany wouldn't hesitate to write power political figures under the table. Her heart jumps a little against the swelling affection in her chest.

"You're incredible, Santana."

And in that moment, and maybe for the first time, Santana Lopez believes it.

They stayed at their office well into the night, eating take out and writing about political scandals.

Brittany never once regrets her missed rendezvous with the superhero, and if Santana's ears twitch like she's straining to hear something very, very, quiet, it goes unnoticed.


	2. Chapter 2

Santana takes a sip of her coffee as her eyes scan the bold print across the Daily Planet's latest edition.

Goolsby is out—arrested and under investigation for bribes, money laundering, and other white collar political gambits. These crimes are not what's concerning, as Brittany's article highlights. It's the reach of Goolsby's policy that needs to be scrutinized. Who he put in office, appointed to councils, or committees.

Who are these people and who is really pulling the strings here?

The answer, of course, is Sue Sylvester, but you can't just come out and accuse the largest corporate mogul in the country of foul play. In accusations against Sylvester, facts seem to fall on deaf ears, leads lose their leverage. Sylvester plays the political game as well as the criminal.

It's frustrating.

Superwoman has no jurisdiction in cooperate affairs or systematic schemes.

The only way to take down Sylvester is to take down her source of power, the colossal corporation known as SueCorp.

"Remember when the City Times implicated Sue Sylvester in orchestrating the nuclear waste spill that ended up privatizing the Metropolis Energy Nuclear Group?"

"What?" Brittany looks up from her own copy of the article. The smile she was wearing fades a bit at the question. "No, I don't remember that story."

She's happy, her article is in bold print and above the fold. Her editors have been stopping at her desk all morning to congratulate her. Brittany always manages to throw due credit towards Santana but that's not what's important. They've got a foot in the door against Sue Sylvester. They have Goolsby's testimony and investigation will surely uncover something detrimental.

Brittany doesn't let the success distract her from the details. Her eyebrows scrunch together as she remembers, "Didn't the Metro Times office burn down last year?"

"Exactly," she sets the paper aside. "Sylvester is dangerous."

Brittany shakes her head and turns to her computer, "If you didn't think I should write this story then why did you help me? Why did you give up all your research?"

"I'm not saying you shouldn't have published it," Santana glances around the office they share. Even the incredibly cautious upper management had approved the print, they were behind Brittany and her story—Santana, doubly so. "I'm just asking you to be careful. I think Sylvester's too smart to come after the Daily Planet. It'd be too obvious, too public, but she won't think twice about coming after you."

Brittany sighs, "Okay fine, that's probably true."

SueCorp going after the Daily Planet would look like petty retaliation and a near admission of guilt for Sylvester's malicious company dealing, but if a reporter just happens to find herself in the wrong place at the wrong time? What's a mugging gone wrong to the six o'clock news?

"I'll be careful," Brittany promises, tapping her pen against her desk while she thinks. "Say, whatever happened with the nuclear plant thing?"

"Oh, something malicious, I'm sure," Santana adjusts her glasses, and takes a short moment to remember the reports she's examined. "SueCorp owns the company that manages their security and all the properties that surround the compound. Nearly eighty percent of the plant's staff are prior SueCorp executives or graduates of SueCorp science and engineering programs."

"So basically Sylvester owns a nuclear power plant?" Brittany is already looking up the plant's website on her computer.

"And the research facility on its grounds."

She's been spying on the area as Superwoman for some time. To anyone on the outside looking in, the place looks like it's genuinely committed to providing the most ecofriendly and cost efficient power to Metropolis. What Santana has a problem with is the constant stream of unmarked—lead lined—cargo trucks that come to and from the facility. This facility has _four entire floors_ that are encased in thick lead walls, buried deep under the earth. A hidden basement that doesn't appear in any of the city's records or construction designs.

"What kind of research facility?"

"It's some sort of biomedical thing. I'd been working on SueCorp's financial reports and they've been pushing funds into this for a while now."

"Okay," Brittany glances at her partner with a sly smile, "you can't tell me to be careful about Sylvester, drop this in my lap, and not expect me to go after it."

"I know."

Superwoman has her hands tied on this one, with jurisdiction and the pressure of the public eye. What she needs now is some old fashion journalism.

"But let's do this one together, alright?" Santana meets her partner's eyes. "Safety first."

Brittany's smile turns sincere.

She snatches a pen and notepad and pushes off against her desk. Santana is barely fast enough to catch the woman's wheeled office chair before they crash together. Brittany laughs, warm and close. Their shoulders brush, knees knock. Santana smells beautifully fragrant perfume.

Santana blushes.

Brittany doesn't notice, she strikes a bold line across her notepad and scribbles a date. When she looks up she finds Santana trying to push her own chair away, to give Brittany more space.

She stops her, holding Santana's forearm lightly. She smiles, promising, "Together."

* * *

The wind is chilly here, coming in strong from the Atlantic Ocean. Brittany pulls her jacket collar closer around her neck. She's always harbored a small affinity for the docks. They're a huge cornerstone of the Metropolis business industry. Shipping lines bring goods, take goods out, and provide for this city.

When she was young, Brittany's father would take her to the park on the other side of the river where they would share an ice-cream cone and watch the large boats coming into port. They made a game of guessing what might be in the different colored containers. She used to imagine them filled with magical jewels from faraway kingdom. Maybe a secret unicorn or two. Now she understands that this shipyard brings in more than huge containers full of products. It brings businesses of all kinds, some respectable, some ruthless, and some are the kind she would eventually grow up to write articles about.

The docks were where she got her first big scoop, tracing a trail of drug traffic and getting more than a few people thrown in jail.

It had been her big break and the investigation that put her on the map, but ever since, Brittany has felt a more than a little uncomfortable about sneaking around this part of town. Not that she doesn't know her way, there's always an informant or two that won't leave their neighborhood and honestly a journalist is only as good as their ability to blend into any situation.

And blend she does.

Brittany's dressed herself for this occasion. Her jacket is a leftover from a lost and found, under that she wears layers of ragged sweaters with a shabby pair of pants. She's hidden her hair, and what she hopes will be most of her face, under a floppy hat and a large scarf. At first glance she looks like a drifter. She hopes no one pays her any more mind than that.

With a quick look around, Brittany pulls a side cutter from inside her jacket and makes quick work of getting up to no good.

SueCorp's acquisition of Metropolis Energy Nuclear Group is too big a story to just sit on—even though she promised to wait—Santana's research into the financial reports and personnel rosters bring up more questions than they answer.

The chain-link fence isn't difficult to split open, and Brittany squeezes into the section of docks that are in association to SueCorp. She's timed this perfectly, and from a hiding spot behind a shipping crate, she can make out the unmarked cargo truck has arrived from the nuclear power plant. She'll have to verify the license plate number when she can get a closer look, but Brittany is sure.

She feels good about this.

The semi-truck is finally in position to be offloaded, Brittany slinks along the shadows to get a better view. The tiny camera she uses is powerful despite its size, something custom and essential to these kind of investigations. She's able to get shots of most of the activity, a few faces, a few building numbers. There's a few particularly interesting bits she hopes she'll be able to examine closer back at her office.

A crane lifts the container from the back of the truck and lowers it onto a waiting cargo ship. Brittany makes her to take a picture of the identification number on its hull.

She thinks that's all she'll need for the night. Hopefully she'll be able to find something on the photos that's traceable. She turns around, planning on sneaking out the way she came.

Then she notices a particular shipping container on the other the edge of the yard. It altogether unremarkable, except for it that's exactly what makes it special. This container is unmarked and unlabeled just like the one that she's been following. She glances around quickly. The security guards and dock workers are still milling about their duties. There's no cover between where she's at and where she wants to be, only a long expanse of concrete wall that she'd need to cross without being noticed.

Is it worth the risk?

Brittany can't guarantee that the container shipped whatever SueCorp is trying to hide and she has no idea if she'll find any sort of clue inside the large metal box. She's not even sure she could open.

But she wouldn't be Brittany S. Pierce if she didn't at least try.

So she makes a break for it, slouching across the smooth concrete wall as silently as she can.

"Hey! Hey, stop right there!"

It doesn't work.

Brittany stops, two guards are already on their way over. Brittany putting her hands up and throws on a fake accent, "Easy buddy, I'm just lookin' for a place to sleep, you know?"

She hopes they have a heart for the homeless. It doesn't seem like it. They shout questions at her, too quickly for her to even get out an answer.

"How did you get in here?"

"What's your name?"

"Didn't you see this area is restricted?"

"Can't you read?"

"I'm sorry," Brittany holds her hands up a little higher, and if she let herself admit it she'd notice how scared she is. "I'll scram, please, I didn't mean any harm."

"Boys," a deep voice calls across the dockyard. "Let me handle this."

He's a tall man, well built, and Brittany tries to commit his face to memory. Dark eyes, shaved head, sinister smile. He's in charge here, one of Sylvester's senior henchmen. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it off to a colleague, "You looking for a place to crash?"

"Come on now," Brittany tries again, her voice slightly more panicked, "we don't have—"

She stops talking when the man saunters over to a shipping container and picks it up.

A shipping container.

A huge, fifty foot, six thousand pound, shipping container.

He picks it up like it was a Lego. And with a satisfied, sadistic smirk, he says, "This'll put you right to sleep."

Then he throws it at her.

Because these aren't the guys that pull out their guns, these are guys that toss shipping crates.

Metahumans.

"Fuck," Brittany watches the container move towards her, lost in a daunting slow motion that she can't escape. Fleetingly, she thinks about the afternoons spent with her dad and wonders what she would have guessed to be in this particular container. Maybe another unicorn, or a dragon, or something that would make being killed a little easier to stomach.

The container hits the ground forty feet in front of her, rolling with a destructive force that is sure to kill her instantly. Reflexively, Brittany presses against the cold concrete of the wall behind her, her mind jumps to Santana—who will be _so totally angry_ with her for not waiting until she came back from vacation to follow up this lead. Even so, would Santana have been able to keep Brittany away? Or convince her that this might have been just a little too risky?

Probably not, but at least then someone would know where she is or where to look for her body when she doesn't come into work tomorrow.

She squeezes her eyes shut, tucking her head behind her arms, listening to the horrible rattling of the rolling container. Her hair flies roughly around her face in the last second as its speed catches up to the quaking earth beneath her legs. It's such a loud crash, an impact that she can feel in her bones, the wall behind her crunching, metal screaming, and everything goes black.

The world is dark, shattered.

It takes Brittany a full minute to realize she's still breathing, still _standing_ even. She slowly opens her eyes, blinking a few times to get her bearings, it's still so dim. Her eyes strain to see even the smallest glimpse of the world, to prove she's not dead, to see she's still in the world. Her heart is throbbing in her chest—too quickly to be comfortable—beating despite her minds doubts.

Her breath is thin, shallow and not alone.

The sound of another person breathing echoes around her, bouncing off the metal wreck and the wall behind her.

Brittany looks up, startled and still on guard for her life. Someone is close, too close. She can't make them out in the dark but the silhouette is there and it's too close. Their arms are on either side of her, and it's too fucking close.

She panics, "Who—"

"Shh," the stranger, tries to be comforting, and there is something familiar about the voice, soft, feminine. "It's okay, you're okay."

"What the fuck!"

Brittany tries to get away, but the stranger's arms are on each side of her shoulders, she can't move. It's too dark, the container has crushed into the wall on either side of them, trapping them in a tomb of metal and concrete. Brittany's feeling claustrophobic. She was nearly killed and she has no idea why she's not dead or who the hell this person is or—

"It's alright, just breathe."

That voice, that slightly raspy register, Brittany knows it.

"Superwoman?"

Now that her eyes have almost adjusted to the low light, she can see exactly what happened. The woman stood in the way and took the impact of the container, the momentum curled the metal around her, creating a pocket big enough to keep Brittany alive. She looks to her left and right, the superhero's hands are buried in the wall nearly up to her elbows from defusing the impact enough to keep Brittany alive. It sure is making this a tight fit though. She can feel the woman's breath on her chin and, for the first time, she seems to be breathing heavily.

"Superwoman," she asks again, hoping she's right. Honestly, who else could stop a flying metal container with their back? "Is that you?"

"Yeah," her voice is quiet, nearly hesitant. It's not the boisterous or confident tone Brittany is used to. "It's me."

"Oh, thank goodness," Brittany's body relaxes, slumping against the wall carelessly. "I thought that was it."

Finally she can believe it. Now she knows this is real, she's alive.

"What are you doing out here?"

She should have expected a scolding, "I um, got a lead, and—"

"You came out here by yourself?"

From the tone of her voice, Brittany can tell that the hero is not trying to be condescending. It's a valid question. Maybe she's trying to get Brittany to realize that this isn't a good idea. That maybe she might not have been able to make it in time.

"Yeah, it wasn't my best idea."

They're standing so close, Brittany wonders if she can feel the heat coming off her face.

Superwoman doesn't say anything. She just stands there in the anxious silence, her head tilted a little away from Brittany's face.

Brittany feels like she's waiting for something. Maybe more of an explanation?

"I should have waited for my partner got back from vacation. This was one of the dumbest things I've done in a really long time. I'm so sorry for this, I'm sure you have better things—"

"I don't," Superwoman says quickly. She faces Brittany briefly, "Have anything better to do, I mean."

Then she turns back to the side.

"Are you," she's not sure if she should ask, "are you okay?"

"I'm listening," the hero answers, "they're not sure if they're going to get rid of your body tonight or leave it for the next shift."

"Oh," Brittany slouches, a little embarrassed. Of course Superwoman wouldn't be waiting for her to explain her poor choices in life, seriously, what was she thinking.

"They're leaving it for the next shift. We'll wait and escape when they doing the change—"

Brittany fidgets, her shoulder brushes against the woman's forearm.

Superwoman jumps a little at the contact. Surprised, she coughs, and repeats herself, "The changeover. I'd rather them think you're dead and have you walk away unnoticed than them hunt you down later for seeing what you did. They didn't get a good look at your face right?"

"No," Brittany shakes her head, "I think I was too far away."

"Good," the shadow of her head nods shortly.

They fall into another awkward silence, listening to each other breathe, trying not to shuffle too much or risk touching each other. Brittany waits a whole minute longer before saying what's on her mind, "You smell like a farm."

"Is that how you compliment people that save your life?" Superwoman scoffs, but Brittany can hear the self-conscious tone lingering behind her sarcasm.

"I didn't mean it like that. I was curious," Brittany admits softly. She waits for a moment and when it's obvious that Superwoman isn't going to elaborate Brittany asks, "Were you at a farm before coming here?"

There's a thick, strained silence, and Brittany thinks that maybe that was too personal a question, "I'm sorry… I—"

Superwoman shakes her head, and in the small light shining in from above them, Brittany can see a sway of a ponytail, "No, I was, I was just at a farm. I probably have cow shit on my boots, I'm sorry. I didn't think to change, I like, needed to—well to get here."

"I'm totally not complaining," Brittany assures her earnestly. She lifts her hands to make a carefree gesture and the backs of her fingers catch the fabric of Superwoman's… pants?

Or shirt?

Or… _no_.

Her lips quirk into a grin, tracing the fabric up Superwoman's stomach. Did she imagine hearing that short, startled breath? The awkward scuff of a shoe on the ground? She sure doesn't miss the squirm of abdominal muscles beneath her fingers.

"Are you wearing _overalls?_"

"You're dressed as a hobo, so let's not point fingers here," Superwoman mutters dismissively, but her shoulders tighten and Brittany can hear chunks of concrete grind in the wall behind her.

"I'm not making fun," she says gently, her smile dimming to an endearing expression. The superhero is embarrassed and it's so adorable. "Please, I'm sorry, I just would never have pictured it in my head."

She feels the tension lessen, but not entirely disappear.

"I'm not Superwoman all the time, you know."

Brittany is surprised by the admission. It's the first time she's ever mentioned an alter ego, and not just to Brittany in particular, Superwoman has never talked about what she does when she's not saving Metropolis.

"Are you a farmer in secret?"

Brittany knows she's prying—she knows she's pushing, though, she's not sure what's making the superhero squirm more, her questions or her fingers tugging gently at the fabric of these overalls.

"How far out from the city is that?"

"I can cross the country in three seconds," Superwoman murmurs, "so really, it could be anywhere between here and the west coast."

"That's true," Brittany nods.

Her eyes follow the strong arms at her shoulders, the light catches the definition in the woman's shoulders, the slopes of her biceps. She bites her bottom lip, the tips of her fingers finding the edge of the denim fabric, the place where the front and back flaps meet under the arm. She wonders what the woman is wearing underneath. In the light she can barely make out the sleeves of a tee shirt, the color is dark.

To focus on something else, she asks, "Do you own the farm?"

"No."

She takes slow a breath through her nose, catching the trace of Superwoman's secret habitat. The smell of hay, oil and great machinery, possibly a fire pit, and yes, definitely manure. What an all American sensation, the sweet smell of a farmland, freshly cut grass, and open fields.

"Superwoman moonlights as a farmhand?" Brittany quirks an eyebrow, her voice quiet in the close proximity.

She's being bold, recklessly forward, and so are her fingers. They dip, reaching to feel the soft fabric of the tee shirt under her overalls. The light catch in the superhero's breath is enough to make Brittany pause. Then, the slight shift in her posture, moving so cautiously closer, is enough to make Brittany continue.

"I don't get paid," Superwoman mentions, a little offhandedly, like she's trying to focus on something besides the fingertips running up her sides.

"You work for free?" Brittany is as surprised as she is impressed. "Charity?"

"Chores," she corrects, shaking her head and trying not to squirm. "I help out—every now and then. It's the season to take in the crops."

That gets Brittany's attention, almost as much as finding the edge of Superwoman's bra hidden under her tee shirt. She continues the charade of a conversation, "So like, your family lives on a farm?"

Superwoman doesn't answer right away, a little distracted by Brittany traces the line of fabric around her ribcage, "One… of the millions of farms in this country."

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Brittany says honestly.

"Why not? Some people would kill for that information."

"I'm not in the business of killing."

Brittany wants to get past the walls that are built up around this woman. She's so strong, physically, of course, but she's also held her own in the face of tremendous public scrutiny after first appearing in Metropolis. And now, Brittany isn't sure if it's their vicinity or the variables in their situation, but tonight, Superwoman seems vulnerable.

"No, you're in the business of snooping," Superwoman gains back some of her bravado, "that's what landed you in this mess."

"I wouldn't call this a mess," Brittany grips the fabric of Superwoman's overall's thumbing over the buckles that connect the shoulder straps, they gleam in the small amount of light. She has to ask a question, "You flew all the way here just to save me?"

Brittany hears the woman take in a deep breath.

She doesn't hear her release it.

"How… how did you know I was in trouble?"

"It's my business to know," she says simply.

As far as Brittany is supposed to be concerned, that's all there was too it. Superwoman saves people. She's saved hundreds of people. Brittany isn't anything special. But then again, does Superwoman answer these questions, however vaguely, to anyone? Does she arrive without her uniform to save just anyone in the nick of time?

"Did you know it was me?" Brittany asks carefully, almost afraid of the answer. "Or did you only know that someone was in trouble?"

Superwoman seems to struggle with herself, trapped in a dark metal and concrete cage with these questions. Her foot slides against the ground and Brittany runs a hand along the strap of her overalls, her thumb strokes over her collar bone, hoping to relax her. Let her know that she can let her guard down. She should trust her.

"I knew it was you."

She looks away as she says it and the light catches her profile, furrowed brow casting a shadow over her eyes and dancing on her cheekbones. Brittany's attention is drawn to her lips, pulled into a conflicted frown.

"I mean, I would save anyone, of course. That's is my job, but… but you're different."

Brittany's heart pounds in her chest, unsure if this is really happening, "I am?"

It sounded too eager, Brittany ducks her head embarrassed with herself for needing such reassurances. She doesn't look up until Superwoman answers with an unquestionable sincerity.

"You are so different, Brittany."

Brittany's voice almost breaks when she asks, "You know my name?"

"Yeah," Superwoman is the one that looks away this time. But Brittany doesn't let her for long. She slips her hands around the hero's face and gently pulls her back.

"You know my name?"

Brittany has to repeat it because she didn't realize how much it meant to her—that she wasn't some anonymous blonde always getting into trouble, that she wasn't one of the dime a dozen citizens that had a soft spot for the Woman of Steel.

"You're not just some damsel in distress, you're special to me."

Brittany swoons. Her knees tremble and her lips tugging into such a pleased smile. She knows Superwoman can feel the blush on face, they're so close to each other. So close and getting closer. Brittany's not sure who's at fault, her hands or the intensity of the moment.

Superwoman's lips are impossibly soft, softer than the indestructible nature of her body should allow lips to be—in fact, her bottom lip is trembling against Brittany's, shy and nervous. Brittany is glad to let her know that this is okay, more than okay, amazing. She places one hand on the small of the hero's back and the other slips to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. The last thoughts of hesitation fell away and Superwoman presses closer, using her body to pin Brittany's against the wall, her kisses a little firmer.

Brittany feels light headed from the solid strength of this woman against her, the air heating around them as their bodies do the same. The space is still so tight, so dark, harsh in a way that this experience isn't. She's trapped here because someone tried to kill her and she's special enough to have someone that wanted to save her. She feels warm, warmer than the space between Superwoman's tee shirt and the back of her overalls. Her hand slides over the strong muscles and the ridges of her spine.

Superwoman makes the smallest noise, pressing just ever so closer and Brittany arches off the wall to meet her. This is really happening. The small space is filled with their heavy breath, tiny sounds, a bit of rustling. The concrete is cracking behind her shoulders and Brittany doesn't have the sense to worry about it. Superwoman wouldn't let any harm come to her. She is completely trusting, thriving on a connection she can't really justify with only the handful of meetings between them and sparse conversation, but she feels this in her every part of her existence.

This is right.

She feels like she knows this woman, and that she means something to her, and that's all she needs right now.

And more kisses, but Superwoman is pulling away. Brittany actually pouts and the heroine gives her one last, lingering kiss.

"I have to," for the first time, Brittany can hear that she's breathless, "I have to slow down."

"Yeah," Brittany agrees with blush.

"I'm sorry," Superwoman seems more embarrassed for needing to stop than Brittany does for wanting to continue, "I—I just have to be careful."

"How do you mean?" Brittany asks.

"If I lose my head, if I lose control," she admits between deep calming breaths, "I could hurt you."

Brittany shudders for an entirely different reason, but it confirms her previous theory; Superwoman wouldn't harm her.

"Cover your eyes, there might be some dust," Superwoman instructs and Brittany does so without question.

She feels the woman take her hands out of the wall, it splinters behind her but stays in place relatively well. She hears a brushing sound and guesses that Superwoman is dusting off her hands.

"Okay, you're good, and the docks are clear so I can take you home."

Brittany takes her hands away from her eyes, "My car—"

"Will be in your spot tomorrow morning," she assures her easily.

"Alright."

* * *

She has to promise to keep her eyes closed the entire time, because it's not proper to see a superhero out of uniform, and in _overalls_ for that matter, but Brittany doesn't mind. Flying through the air in these strong arms is a blessing in itself. Her own arms are wrapped around Superwoman's shoulders. One hand has been playing with the strap of her overalls, and the hero hasn't said anything about it so Brittany isn't about to stop.

She's almost surprised that Superwoman can find her building with only an address, and takes the instructions about where the car goes with a small hum of understanding. They touch down on the roof, Brittany keeps her eyes squeezed shut as her feet find the ground.

"Can I open my eyes?"

"Not yet," there's a smile in Superwoman's voice, "count to three, okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

Brittany smiles, feeling giddy at the small exchange, "I promise."

"Thank you," Superwoman whispers, then presses her lips against Brittany's cheek. "Have a good night, Brittany."

Her head is spinning so fast that she's barely able to say, "You too."

She counts to five for good measure and, like she thought, when she opens her eyes she's alone with no other company than the stars above her. They twinkle like they're in on the secret, Brittany smiles back to them.


End file.
